


Flesh on the Canvas

by Random_Writes_Stuff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU-Sherlock Paints Things Alive, M/M, Mild descriptions of Gore and Decomposition, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Writes_Stuff/pseuds/Random_Writes_Stuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he held a brush, it was to capture the colours of a decomposing rat carcass that one of the cats had dragged in. EDIT: Abandoned until further notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a Fic based on [this](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/34752531325/ineffableboyfriends-trick-or-treat) pic by [Reapersun](http://reapersun.tumblr.com).
> 
> This is a story written as a base for world-building. There's a cleaner novel style I'm working on for NaNoWriMo.
> 
> It’s not that epic and I heard that there was already another Fic for that pic, so…
> 
> Exercise Caution?

The first time he held a brush, it was to capture the colours of a decomposing rat carcass that one of the cats had dragged in.

It shouldn’t have fascinated him that much, what with him being only Seven years old at the time. But when he touched the brush to the paper, the results left much to be desired. He had ended up ripping it to shreds and letting it burn in the fireplace.

It was on another day, when London’s dreary weather had left him confined to his own rooms that he had held the brush again.

He had been thinking about the rat carcass, pitying the fact that he couldn’t recreate the vibrant and contrasting colours of the decomposition.

He had remembered his failure and was determined to create a more acceptable conclusion.

The rat had long since been disposed of, but it didn’t take much for him to exercise his imagination.

He had laid it out perfectly, each stroke planned to make the painting whole. He used fine strokes for the wet fur. Smattered the red-brown of the coagulated blood. Detailed the greens and blues of the decomposing flesh.

At one point, he had noticed that a foul smell had permeated the air. He ignored it in favour of continuing his work.

He’d never noticed that the smell disappeared once he laid down the last stroke.

—-

The first time he realised what happens when he brings a brush to any surface, he was painting a portrait of Mycroft’s dead pet cat.

It was a dear thing with crooked ears and calico fur. It had followed Mycroft home from school one day and had stuck around ever since.

He had never really been attached to the feline, but he decided to do something nice for his brother and started to paint her.

Painting came easily to him now, he had realised that he was able to achieve the desired results when he worked on his imagination alone.

It was only when he had finished painting the cat’s head that he he noticed that the cat’s eyes were tracking the brush. It was unnerving to say the least, noticing your work come to life in front of your eyes in a more literal sense. He had thought it only a figment of his imagination. That is, until he finished painting the torso. The cat had opened it’s mouth, and meowed.

It startled him so much, his brush slipped from his hand and left an ugly stroke across the cat’s neck. The painting returned to being inanimate as it should be.

He never painted live things again whenever he suspected that he was being watched.

—-

The first time he painted a human, he was high.

He was sure that he would do no such thing when he was sober because the possibility of the human coming to life and speaking was just disconcerting. With his senses numbed with a high however…

University was boring and his peers were dimmer than what the brochure had promised. The glossy paper had announced that only the most brilliant of people were allowed to enrol. Clearly, it had lied.

He had secluded himself in his room, as he always would, and had a hit running through his system. Usually, he would finish whatever assignments he had left on the high, racing against time to finish them before the crash. That day, however, he had absolutely nothing to do.

He’ll never know how he came across the solution to paint a human being, all he knew was that he had the greatest urge to do _something_.

He had sat at his easel, the afternoon light filtering through his windows between the blinds, and held the brush to the plain white canvas.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up after crashing from the high with a blanket tucked up to his neck and a painting of a man he had never even seen on his bedside table.

That was the first time he met John.

—-

Nobody knew who John Watson was.

All they knew was that Sherlock Holmes always came to crime scenes, does his magical mojo, and leaves with a dramatic flourish of his coat. Nobody expected for him to arrive at the scenes with _anyone_ in tow, especially not the small reserved man.

They were used to seeing Sherlock appearing and disappearing in a matter of minutes, leaving behind the exact descriptions of the murderer and where he might be hiding.

They weren’t used to seeing him appear with this John fellow by his side, witness him purposefully show off in front of said man and watching as they both leave to go catch the criminals themselves.

But then again, they preferred it this way.

With John around, Sherlock just seemed a bit more… Human.

Now, the Yard didn’t pull their hair out trying to figure out wether or not Holmes was a Serial Killer.

All because of one John Watson.

—-

John knows where he came from.

He remembers opening his eyes with Sherlock being the first thing that he saw.

He remembers watching the brush and then suddenly realising that he could hear. It was the same with his sense of smell.

He watched the brush travel up until it was out of sight and suddenly he knew that he had been a soldier.

He watched as the brush hovered over his left shoulder. He felt a sudden twinge of what must be pain and knew that he had been shot.

His hands were painted a darker tone until his wrist, as was his face until his neck. He knew he had served Queen and Country in Afghanisthan.

The brush had then painted clothes on his skin and he knew that he enjoys the comfort of jumpers and jeans.

A cane was painted in one of his hands and he knew that he had been invalided home.

The brush was then traded for a finer one and then returned to his face. He felt the wrinkles on his skin and knew his birthdate.

The brush then travelled to his fingertips and he knew that he had been a doctor. He also knew that Sherlock was high.

Before either of them had realised it, he had reached out of the canvas he was painted on and found himself standing in front of a rather stunned Sherlock.

“Odd,” he heard the man mumble. “None of the others did that before.”

He ignored him in favour of inspecting his eyes. “Not good,” he says to himself and then continues louder, “How long has it been since you gave yourself a shot? You’re going to crash soon.”

He had noticed how Sherlock quirked his eyebrow, disbelieving, until his eyes widened and he started to curl in on himself. He knew the coldness was a symptom of the crash.

“There now, just lean on me.” He looped one of Sherlock’s long, gangly arms around his shoulders and hooked his shorter, woollen jumper clad one around his waist. He led the taller man to the bed tucked in the corner of the room.

He laid the man down on the bed and pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. He looked to see Sherlock staring intently at him.

He felt awkward, a little too self-conscious. He blinked rapidly for a second before clearing his throat.

“What is it?” he says, anything he can to fill the silence in the room.

“I wasn’t done with you yet,” Sherlock mutters, eyes glowing slightly. “I hadn’t decided on the colour of your eyes.”

He was tempted to look in a mirror, curious as to whether or not his eyes were clear or white.

“Blue suits you so well…” Sherlock muttered, his clear blue eyes glazing over as the crash consumed him.

He turned away from the bedridden man, looking instead to the easel with the blank canvas still atop it.

He walked closer towards the stand, curiosity taking over his sense to turn away.

He regarded the canvas he has come from. It looked like any plain old surface. Out of pure curiosity, he lifted an arm and pressed forward. Instead of feeling pressure or the rough texture of the canvas, his hand went right through it, like how one could stick his hand out a window.

He retrieved his hand, cradling it to his chest. Was it going to be like that every blank canvas he comes into contact with?

“Bring it here.”

He turned around to look at Sherlock. He was sitting up in bed, covers still tucked neatly under his chin.

Before he could open his mouth again, Sherlock spoke up. “Bring the canvas over here.”

“I can’t touch it-” he begins to explain, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“Try holding the sides, it shouldn’t be able to suck you back in if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He did as he was told and carefully brought over the blank canvas. He set it down on the bedside table.

“Brushes and palette.”

He rolled his eyes before complying to Sherlock’s demands.

He scratched the back of his head as the brushes and palette changed hands.

“So, um…” He started. What should he say at a time like this? _Who the hell are you? What the hell am I doing here? Thank you for bringing me to life oh mighty creator?_

“Can you step back into the canvas?”

The question startled him.

“What?! Why?”

“Think of it as an experiment.” Sherlock said nonchalantly. “Wouldn’t you like to know if you can go back in after you come out, or in fact come out a second time?”

Well, he really would like to know. It’ll probably come in handy. If he can think of a few ways, that is.

“Well, okay.” He said, stepping up to the canvas.

He was painfully aware that he had Sherlock’s full attention on him, and he gulped before stretching out into the canvas. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the painting looking up at Sherlock.

“This is somewhat interesting.” He mutters, staring straight at the man who had painted him to life.

“Okay, I need your consent on this part.” Sherlock started, his cold eyes locking onto John’s. “I’m just going to test out a theory. Would you mind?”

He didn’t even blink when the words “I don’t mind.” tumbled out from his lips.

“Good.” Was all Sherlock says before he picks up a fine brush and dips it into blue. The brush goes to his left eye and then to his right.

Then everything just fades to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a room in the old Holmes’s townhouse.
> 
> This special room, if empty, would just be a plain white box. No place one would assume where an artist would have worked.

There is a room in the old Holmes’s townhouse.

It was a room where Mrs Holmes only stepped in when she was missing her dear little Sherlock.

It wasn’t a bedroom, but it was far larger than the place where her son had slept, and definitely the place where he spent most of his time, aside from the makeshift lab downstairs of course.

It had no windows, this special room, but it was compensated by the special lights Mycroft had obtained from someplace obscure. They had lit up the room as if it were a pleasant spring day.

This special room, if empty, would just be a plain white box. No place one would assume where an artist would have worked.

However, up on the walls either pasted there or hanging by the nail were wonderful realistic paintings. The ones that had dominated the walls were of decomposing bodies and freshly dead animals. There was even a chain of paintings recording the various states of decomposition of a rat, ending with a beautiful ivory skeleton.

But, the works that really drew the eyes even with their alarming neighbours, were the paintings of the live ones.

The paintings themselves were very well done, the eyes of the subjects seeming like they were tracking your every movement.

They were all incomplete, yes. Only in the way where they only ever reached the torso.

This, however, was not the reason why they were so striking.

Every peice with a live subject was slashed through with a horrendous streak of red.

—-

He knew it.

He had always suspected, but his memory is impeccable as always. He remembers the times when the now familiar smell of decomposition had filled the air whenever he painted carcasses and cadavers. They had always disappeared whenever he was done.

He had always thought it a trick of the mind. Now, he knew better.

His hand hovers over the painting of the blond haired man, fingers tracing the air over his eyes. He had such beautiful deep blue eyes that it’s a wonder how he had been able to capture it.

He had stopped moving when he was complete.

All his life, whenever he painted something live, he had to make them inanimate again by marring the painting with a large ugly stroke.

Now, he knows that they stop when they were complete. Immediately, he was struck with regret.

He remembered vaguely the characteristics of the man who had come out of the canvas, deducing the rest on the painting alone.

He was interesting, this army doctor that his drug addled mind had created. He wondered why this man had ended up at the other end of his brush.

He wanted to speak to the too trusting man again.

But, no. He didn’t think he could bring himself to paint him again. He would never admit that he was afraid that he might mess something up.

So, after looking reverently once more at the painting, he stashed it away and never looked at it again.

—-

There is a hospital issued cane leaning on the wall by his easel. He never gave anyone a straight answer when they asked.

—-

Mrs Hudson was a very nice woman with a not so very nice husband.

After helping her get rid of said husband, she had shown her gratitude by offering him a very affordable price for the flat she was renting out.

He had been looking for a place to live after he had been evicted from his last flat. The Landlord, a sanguine man who always forgot to turn up his hearing aids and always had his head in the clouds hadn’t minded when he had conducted his often hazardous experiments or played his violin at all hours of the night.

It had been the other tenant from the flat above his who had driven him out. Apparently the woman was some sort of lawyer and had pulled out all the stops imaginable to get him gone.

Mr Trevor had bid him farewell and complained lightly about the fact that he had to look for a new tenant before wandering aimlessly in search for something that had crossed his mind.

It had been a good thing that he had stumbled across Mrs Hudson’s case when he did, otherwise he would have had to live on the streets or move back in with Mummy. Or worse, having to depend on _Mycroft_. The thought of it made him shudder.

The move hadn’t taken long as the flat had come with furniture of it’s own. He only had a little over a couple dozen boxes that was filled with his possessions. Even then, more than half of them were either lab equipment or books.

The first thing he had unpacked were his clothes. He preferred to have them hung neatly and not strewn about all over the place as he unpacked other things. He had opened up every box and even set up his lab equipment and violin stand while he was at it.

He had his easel set up in the room he had claimed as his own.

It was when he had opened the box filled with paintings he hadn’t yet thrown away that Mrs Hudson had walked in.

“How’s it going up here then, Sherlock?” she had cooed to announce her presence. “Need any help unpacking your things?”

He smiled at her. “Not necessary Mrs Hudson. Wouldn’t want you to worry your hip.”

“Oh, no worries dearie. I can help place the smaller things.” She had walked up to Billy and brushed away imaginary dust from his cranium.

He just went back to pulling out the paintings, a recent acrylic one letting its scent flood the air.

“Oh, I recognise that smell.” Mrs Hudson said as she turned around. “My nephew had his shirt stained with it one time he dropped by for a visit. Did you paint these, Sherlock?”

He arched an eyebrow when she finally noticed what the paintings are of.

“These look very real, Sherlock.” She had said and the gestured to several paintings of pale cadavers. “Do I suppose that these subjects were from your cases?”

He only smirked as he watched her go through the paintings. He was actually impressed that she hadn’t dropped them like they were hot coals and high tailed out of the room. But, her husband _had_ been held on murder charges…

“Oh, why, who’s this then?” He looked up to find Mrs Hudson holding up the picture of the blond man. “A special someone I should know about?”

He walked over to her side, swaying slightly. He looked at the man, a memory resurfacing of when he had just painted him to life.

“No,” he says, taking the painting from Mrs Hudson. “He’s not real. I created him.”

She looked on forlornly as he stared down at the familiar face he visualised everyday, too afraid to recreate. “Well, the dear has such pretty eyes. They just hold so much love and care. I’d thought for sure that he was yours.”

His hands gripped tighter around the painting just a fraction.

“Well now I’m off, left a casserole in the oven. Got to go check up on it.” She gave him one last smile and then left.

He brought the painting to his room, and along with it a cane he hadn’t seen fit to dispose.

He set both of them down by his wardrobe and then sat at his easel, a new blank canvas propped up on it.

He looked at the painting of the blond man once more, then he slapped a nicotine patch on his bare arm and began to paint.


End file.
